


I Should Be So Lucky

by Antarctica OKane (C0DENAMEAntarctica)



Category: Mark Gatiss - Fandom, Mycroft Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Conflict, I Love You, Ian Hallard - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mark Gatiss - Freeform, Mark Gatiss/Ian Hallard - Freeform, Oral Sex, Real Life meets Fan Fic, Resolution, Secret love, The Reichenbach Fall, kylie minogue - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C0DENAMEAntarctica/pseuds/Antarctica%20OKane
Summary: Don't worry.I'll always write more Mystrade.I just felt our fandom was really lacking a fic about these two.  I was only able to find one work with less than 1k words that even eluded to something between them.  So, since the actors are married to each other, I felt this ship deserved some attention.  #Craycroft??
Relationships: Mark Gatiss/Ian Hallard, Mark Gatiss/Ian Hallard/Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Barrister, Mycroft Holmes/Moriarty's Barrister, Mycroft Holmes/Moriarty's Lawyer, Mycroft Holmes/Mr. Crayhill
Kudos: 6





	I Should Be So Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry.  
> I'll always write more Mystrade.  
> I just felt our fandom was really lacking a fic about these two. I was only able to find one work with less than 1k words that even eluded to something between them. So, since the actors are married to each other, I felt this ship deserved some attention. #Craycroft??

Mycroft sat in his office, watching a live feed from the courtroom. Sherlock and John were in the dark about his access to the proceedings and would remain so.  
“Your Honor, we’re not calling any witnesses,” said the barrister. He seemed almost as shocked to be speaking those words as everyone else was to hear them.  
Mycroft raised his hand to his forehead with aggravation as the lawyer spoke again. “Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defense rests, sir.”  
Mycroft stared into Moriarty’s eyes. What was he planning? He was determined to deal with this situation without Sherlock’s interference. As the judge spoke, though, he found himself distracted. He was paying far more attention to the barrister than to the judge’s words.   
You see, the other thing of which Sherlock and John were unaware was that Mycroft knew that barrister. He knew him quite well. In fact, Mycroft was carefully protecting the secret that he had been romantically involved - intimately involved - with that barrister, Mr. Christopher Crayhill, for several months.   
Mycroft had always avoided personal entanglements to the best of his abilities. Attachments and human emotion were, of course, pitfalls - weaknesses. He had, however, spent a few evenings over the years in the company of other gentlemen who were equally interested in the, shall we say - mechanics of physical pleasure. Mycroft had first met Mr. Crayhill when Moriarty was in his custody. He couldn’t help but wonder what such an experience might be like with the young barrister. That was, initially, his only intention - a business transaction of sorts. They were to meet, share an evening, and go along their separate ways. Much to Mycroft’s surprise, that’s not quite how it worked out.  
Now, they met almost every night at Mycroft’s home. They never discussed work - no cases, no politics. They did, however, talk about music, film, and antiquities. It turned out that, despite a small age difference, they had a great deal in common. Mycroft’s dry tone made Christopher laugh from time to time, and their physical encounters were quite - pleasurable, to say the least. They were unusually comfortable in one another’s presence - as though they’d know each other for decades.  
On the day of Moriarty’s court appearance, however, they were both under a great deal of stress. They’d had a bit of a disagreement over the exclusivity of their relationship the night prior. Mycroft wasn’t seeing other men, he couldn’t tolerate most people, after all, but Christopher wanted some sort of commitment or pact from him that he wasn’t entirely comfortable giving. That would mean that this was a normal, human relationship. Mycroft would never again be able to deny an emotional attachment to Christopher if he made promises to him.   
Mycroft’s reflection on the situation was interrupted by Dr. Watson’s phone call.

*******

Christopher found himself in front of the mirror, trying to choose a shirt. It had now been weeks since their last real conversation, and Mycroft had invited him to dinner. He was only going to Mycroft’s house, but he still wanted to look good. He was hoping Mycroft had changed his mind about a commitment. He settled on a blue shirt with a subtle floral pattern. The colour, he thought, would match Mycroft’s eyes. Christopher couldn’t resist Mycroft’s eyes. He patted some parfume on his face and neck, heading out the door with a nervous flutter in his stomach.

*******

Mycroft had prepared the sitting room bar for company. He hoped that he and Christopher could talk for a while before dinner. He still wasn’t sure what he might decide to say, but he knew he needed to see Christopher.   
As he poured two martinis, the doorbell rang. Mycroft leaned over to see his reflection in the metal bar top, straightened his tie, and went to answer the door.  
“Hello,” he said nervously, opening the door.  
“Hi.” Christopher walked past Mycroft, heading straight for the sitting room. “I owe you an apology, Mycroft,” he said, making himself at home on the sofa.  
Mycroft followed him, picking up the martini glasses on his way, setting them to rest on the tea table near the sofa. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said, sitting next to Christopher. “I behaved terribly. You were well within your rights to expect that I’d agree to a commitment eventually.”  
“Well, this hasn’t been a casual thing, has it?”  
“I intended for it to be,” began Mycroft, “at first. I never expected it to be more than a one-night stand.”  
Christopher’s big brown eyes looked at Mycroft with pain flickering in them. “But it never really was,” he said. “Or, am I wrong? Am I reading too much from you?”  
Mycroft felt himself fidget on the sofa, unsure of how to deal with such an intimate conversation. He cared for Christopher, more than he was capable of admitting. It was true, though, that he’d never expected that to happen.  
Mycroft noticed the hurt in Christopher’s eyes. “No. Of course, you’re not reading too much into this. I really do,” he hesitated, “care for you.”  
“Is that the best way to describe what you feel, Mycroft? You care for me?”  
“I suppose so.” Mycroft knew Christopher wanted more. He was trying.   
Christopher pretended to adjust his position on the sofa while actually sliding farther away from Mycroft. “Well, if that’s all you feel, Mycroft - if there’s nothing more than that, maybe I shouldn’t be here.” He turned his head to stare forward, waiting for Mycroft’s reaction, hoping it might be filled with panic.  
“There is more to it than that, Christopher.” Mycroft deliberately slid himself over, pinning Christopher between the arm of the sofa and his body. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I love you?” His voice was raised and, as Christopher had hoped, slightly panicked.  
Christopher turned to look at Mycroft again, locking his chocolatey irises with Mycroft’s ice blue ones. “Do you?”  
Mycroft could feel his heart racing. What was he supposed to say? Did he love him? How could he possibly know? Love wasn’t something with which he’d ever been particularly au fait. He stared into Christopher’s eyes, knowing that if he looked away, as he genuinely wanted to, he’d be admitting some sort of weakness. “I -” Nothing else would come out. It was as though something was preventing any glottal activity in his throat, blocking him from finishing the sentence. “I -,” he repeated.  
Christopher rolled his eyes and looked away. “Forget it, Mycroft. Clearly, I do owe you an apology. I thought you wanted to be with me. I thought you loved me. I’m sorry I was mistaken.” He stood and walked quickly toward the front entrance.  
Mycroft still couldn’t speak but rushed after Christopher, grabbing his forearm before he could reach for the doorknob to leave. Christopher turned around with a cyclonic mix of sadness and fury in his eyes. “What?” He didn’t quite yell the word, but Mycroft could read the anger in his tone.  
Still unable, or unwilling, to speak, Mycroft took Christopher’s chiseled jaw in his hands and kissed him. Christopher pushed against Mycroft’s chest with his hands, pulling their lips apart. “Don’t,” he ordered, turning back toward the doorknob.  
Mycroft repeated his actions, snatching Christopher’s arm away from the brass handle once again. This time, Christopher did yell. “Mycroft!”  
“I love you!” Mycroft yelled just as loudly. He hadn’t meant to yell, but the panic he felt was overwhelming.  
Christopher allowed his eyes to look up at Mycroft as he spoke very quietly. “Do you really mean that?”  
Mycroft let out a sigh filled with both nerves and relief. “I really mean it.”  
“Come here,” instructed Christopher, pulling Mycroft toward the nearby parlour fireplace. He sat himself in one of the wingback chairs, pulling Mycroft’s waist toward him.  
Mycroft’s blood was still pumping so quickly it was visible throughout his body, and his breathing was shallow. He began to feel slightly light-headed as he realised Christopher was unfastening his belt. His eyes closed, and his head leaned back, almost as if in grateful prayer, as he felt Christopher’s fingers on the skin near his waistband. Crayhill’s hands were strong but somehow delicate. He unfastened the government official’s trousers, tugging them down just slightly to reveal his pants underneath, then, inhaling with pleasure, he noticed that Mycroft’s slit was already weeping with anticipation. Suddenly, he felt Mycroft’s hand on the back of his head. He didn’t need guidance. With no help from Mycroft, he lunged his neck forward, taking as much of him in his mouth as he could.   
Mycroft couldn’t resist his need for control. He fisted Crayhill’s ashy hair, yanking and pushing in a steady rhythm as he felt the barrister’s tongue holding pressure on the underside of his shaft. “Ohhh,” Mycroft moaned. “I missed you, Christopher.”  
Christopher stood up, unfastening his own trousers this time, kicking them quickly to the side. He stood on the balls of his feet, trying to cut their four-inch height difference in half. He pushed his bare hips against Mycroft. “Please,” he said, sitting back down in the chair.   
“Please - what?”   
“Do you really need me to tell you?” Christopher smiled.  
“Maybe,” replied Mycroft. He didn’t. He knew what Christopher was asking, but hearing it could only make the moment better.  
“Fuck me, Mycroft.”  
Mycroft could feel the heat in his groin as Christopher spoke the words. He bent down, kneeling on the floor, pointing Christopher’s hips to the ceiling. He stroked Christopher’s prick as he rimmed him. “God. Yes.” Christopher moaned and raised his hips farther, inviting Mycroft in.   
Mycroft reached up and pulled his pocket square from his jacket, tossing it on the floor. Reaching to the same pocket again, he pulled out a packet of lubricant. Christopher watched with a smile as Mycroft opened the pouch. He had the most wonderful smile. It was so genuine, almost innocent. Mycroft poured a bit of the gel into Christopher’s hand.  
As Christopher slowly covered Mycroft’s shaft with lubricant, Mycroft leaned over him, suckling on his collar bone. Before leaning back into the chair again, Christopher inhaled near Mycroft’s cheek and blew warm air into his ear as he whispered, “I love you, too.”  
Using the remaining gel, Mycroft’s finger’s traveled to Christopher’s hole as his mouth began to work on his sac. Christopher began to rhythmically move his own pelvis up and down slightly as he savored the sensation of Mycroft’s fingers exploring him.   
Standing up, Mycroft locked eyes with Christopher again. “Look at me.”   
Christopher stared back, but his eyes shut involuntarily as he winced and inhaled, trying to relax his body as Mycroft entered it. He felt fingers under his chin. “Don’t stop looking at me.”   
Christopher opened his eyes again as they found a rhythm, and the pain eased into pleasure.   
Mycroft’s body was overtaken by chills as his nervous system tried to process the combination of emotional and physical delectation. He had never planned for this. He had never imagined that he would want, let alone actually be in, an exclusive relationship at any point in his life. He’d had other sexual partners in the past, but it was never personal. At this moment, he couldn’t even remember their names. The chills through his body turned to tightness in his chest as he stared into Christopher’s eyes. He really did love the barrister. He loved his eyes and his smile. He loved his muscular yet very lean build. He loved the sweep of his air against his forehead. He loved the way he always started a sentence with a breath of excited anticipation. He loved how he threw his head back every time he laughed. He loved when he sang in the shower but did so as if he was performing for an audience of hundreds. Most of all, he loved the way Christopher knew him. Christopher, somehow, could always see Mycroft for what he really was. When they were in one another’s company, Mycroft wasn’t just his brother’s keeper. He wasn’t just a foreboding presence serving the Cabinet Office or MI6.  
Christopher struggled to keep his eyes open. It was against every instinct he had. His body wanted desperately to close those eyes and sink into a dark, private world of rapture. He felt Mycroft’s hand begin to pump his cock as his body started lurching closer to the edge. He examined Mycroft’s face. Somehow, seeing the emotion that Mycroft was subtly trying to hide sent an extra spark through Christopher’s legs as they began to give out. He felt sticky wetness pour onto his abdomen as he began to yell through Mycroft’s final thrusts, finally feeling that same damp sensation inside his body, accompanied by Mycroft's quiet grunts and gasps.  
Christopher slid onto the floor, resting his back against the carpet, and pulled Mycroft down on top of him. Mycroft buried his face in the crook of Christopher’s neck.  
“Forever, Mycroft. I want forever,” Christopher whispered, taking Mycroft’s earlobe in his teeth.  
Mycroft lifted his chest, brushing his lips against Christopher’s. “I should be so lucky,” he said. 

**Author's Note:**

> I Should Be So Lucky is a song by Kylie Minogue that was read - interpretively?? by one of Mark Gatiss' League of Gentlemen cohorts at Mark and Ian's civil ceremony back in 2008. 
> 
> Thank you for stopping by to read this one, even though its short and a little left of center.  
> If you like it, please give it a retweet on Twitter using this link:  
> [I Should Be So Lucky](https://twitter.com/antarcticaokane/status/1339740546387091462?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)


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